Sweet Sighs and Broken Pleasures
by krazykitkat
Summary: That isn't what this is. - Sequel to "Tomorrow" (some dark imagery)


TITLE: Sweet Sighs and Broken Pleasures  
AUTHOR: Katrina McDonnell  
EMAIL: mcdonnem@tpg.com.au  
SPOILERS: None really.   
RATING: R (dark sexual imagery)  
DISCLAIMER: The West Wing and its characters are the property of   
Aaron Sorkin, Warner Brothers, and NBC. No Copyright Infringement   
is intended. I will put them back slightly disheveled.   
ARCHIVE: Sure, but please ask first.  
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated.  
ORIGINALLY POSTED: 28 February, 2002.   
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the sequel/companion story to "Tomorrow",   
from CJ's point of view. I recommend reading Tomorrow first, though   
this story should stand on its own.   
THANKS: To my three wonderful editors. Christine: for reading the   
first half of this story six months ago and assuring me I wasn't mad; for   
your wonderful suggestions. Kat: for your constant support, suggestions   
and friendship; for the perfect title. Pene: for offering your marvellous   
editing skills and making me look at words in different ways; for your   
encouragement.   
SUMMARY: That isn't what this is.  
  
  
I slowly surface through the layers of sleep, becoming aware of a pressure   
on my cheek and a soft breeze fanning my face. Momentarily I panic,   
flashing back to the first seconds of consciousness and an unrelenting   
pavement caressing my head. The touch of warm skin on the exposed   
side and soft cloth nestling the other filters through. I breathe again   
as I open my eyes.  
  
I remember where I am, the familiar features in front of me. The palm   
still resting against my cheek is new. He discovered early on that stroking   
my cheek helped me to relax. My mother used to do it when I was having   
trouble sleeping. This is nothing like that. But he thinks it helps and his   
hand is always gone by the time I wake. Until now.  
  
It makes a clean getaway a little more difficult. I lightly take hold of   
his wrist, lifting it and moving my head back. I slowly place it on the   
pillow, holding my breath, hoping he doesn't stir. Because I don't know   
what I'll do if those eyes open and ask me to stay. It's safer to avoid the   
question.  
  
I carefully slip out from under the covers. The cold morning air on my   
bare skin is a shock. The clock on the dressing table next to me reads   
3:20 in large red type. My internal alarm always manages to wake me   
between three and three-thirty am when I'm here.  
  
I walk quietly into the bathroom. A hot shower would be wonderful,   
but too risky. I've come to know the layout of this room intimately. I   
locate the box of tissues by feel and wipe away the remnants of night   
as best I can. The tiles beneath my feet are freezing. I quickly decide   
a little stickiness is preferable to hypothermia and depart in search of   
my clothing.  
  
They're where they always are, strewn across the front entrance in our   
haste. I pick my items out of the mess, briefly glancing at the front   
door. I'm almost certain the wood is starting to warp in an impression   
of my body. Just as well it's strong and solid. I don't fancy it breaking   
from the force of the night's sexual proclivities.  
  
I retreat to the carpeted lounge area to dress. I pull on my panties,   
wincing slightly as the cloth comes into contact with tender and chafed   
areas. I've no one but myself to blame.   
  
The first time, I think my demands scared him. I don't recall how it   
happened, probably too much to drink after a particularly crappy day.   
But I do remember shoving him against the door, kissing him hard and   
proceeding to divest us of material until skin met skin. I made quick   
work of arousing him and switched positions so I was braced against   
the door. I pulled him against me and used my height to my advantage,   
burying him deep within me. I set a frantic pace, hard and fast, gritting   
my teeth against the inevitable pain. I was grateful for the darkness. I   
know he would have stopped if he had seen my face.  
  
Our legs buckled and we slid to the floor, the climax shattering the   
fort I'd built around my emotions. I wrapped my arms around his neck,   
clutching him to keep me from drowning. The tears flowed and my   
body shuddered and he apologised over and over.  
  
I couldn't stand his self-loathing any longer, I had to get out of there. I   
lifted off him, a whimper of pain escaping from my pursed lips. I met   
his eyes, but had to turn away from the horror within. I needed to tell   
him that he wasn't the one who'd hurt me, my pain was self-inflicted.   
But there weren't any words.   
  
I used to run until I couldn't breathe and my muscles would collapse   
from the lactic acid buildup. Then the world broke and running in D.C.   
in the middle of the night isn't safe without a Secret Service escort. I   
moved onto an indoor sport for two.  
  
I left quickly that first time, without a word. Work was awkward for   
weeks, we avoided each other as much as possible. He couldn't meet my   
eyes. There were comments, wonderings, rumours, but there's always   
some crisis to divert attention. We were forgotten in the fallout.  
  
A month later I was on his doorstep. Uncertainty tensed his shoulders,   
but he let me in. We stood looking at each other, a strained silence   
stretching to breaking point. I closed the distance until our bodies   
touched and whispered, "Please". I think he finally understood at that   
moment.   
  
He insisted on a slightly less frenetic encounter. Insisted on me being   
at least partially aroused, despite pleas, fingernails and teeth. He was   
still enough to shatter me as we collapsed to the floor. Still enough to   
leave me rubbed raw.  
  
He always kisses my shoulder as I cry. He's given up trying to watch   
my face. I won't take that step over into intimacy. That isn't what this   
is.  
  
I hiss as my bra strap contacts his beard burn. My flesh is allowed no   
time to heal between attacks. These encounters are increasing rapidly   
in frequency. I'm concerned he'll think this is a relationship. I should   
never have let him lead me into the bedroom.  
  
The bedroom started that second time. Payment for services rendered.   
To placate and absolve guilt.  
  
I call his name and whisper the words he wants to hear. He doesn't see   
me hiding within the glare of the streetlight. I smile as I lower myself   
onto him, anticipating the hot, sharp pain. He thinks this is tender and   
sensuous. I hear ancient Sister Marie screeching, "flagellation".  
  
He understands why this must be kept within these walls. This administration   
has taken enough hits without adding a sex scandal to the litany. I'm   
good at my job. But even I would have trouble spinning tales of Press   
Secretaries cruising bars for rough sex.  
  
He has as much to lose as I do if this gets out. The Christian Right   
would dine on us for months. I'm safe with him. We may be at cross   
purposes, but we are both getting something of what we want out of this.   
And as long as we are content with that...  
  
He doesn't understand. He isn't content. That hand on my face is his   
second step in turning this into something it isn't. I need to run, I'll   
take my chances with the muggers. I'll run until I can't breathe, until I   
collapse. These aren't exactly my running clothes, but I'll make do as   
always.  
  
I pull on my shoes. I pick up his clothes, folding them neatly before   
dumping them in the dirty clothes hamper.  
  
I'm half way across the lounge room when I feel him. Against my   
screaming instincts I turn.  
  
He's standing in the bedroom doorway naked.  
  
I forget how to breathe as he silently whispers the question. I turn back   
to check my escape route. There's a shirt button on the floor.  
  
Run  
  
Collapse  
  
Cry  
  
Shatter.  
  



End file.
